White Knight
by Gil Shalos1
Summary: Jack McCoy pays attention to the people he works with, especially the women ... even those who don't want to be noticed. Set early in the 24 years McCoy worked in the DA's Office before his first appearance in "Second Opinion".
1. White Roses

"You're looking particularly lovely today, Colleen."

Colleen James looked up from her typewriter. Jack McCoy was leaning against her desk, holding a bouquet of white roses, grinning down at her. His tie and jacket were off and his sleeves rolled up, as always when he was not actually in court. _I_ _'_ _m not really one of the up-tight upstairs lawyers_ , his disregard for office convention said. _I_ _'_ _m just a regular Joe like you._

 _And also_ , Colleen reflected, _it lets him show off that well-put-together body of his._ She doubted it was a coincidence.

"What can I do for you, Mr. McCoy?" she asked, not returning his smile.

"You can tell me when you're going to finally learn to call me 'Jack'," he said slyly.

"I'm a married woman," Colleen said, shooting a quick glance at the door across the hall to check that the door with the nameplate _Daniel James_ was closed. "And you're a …"

"Formerly married man," McCoy said with what could only be called a roguish grin.

"I think it's better to keep things on a professional basis, Mr. McCoy."

"Well, okay, then, _Mrs. James_ ," McCoy said, not sounding in the least bit offended – or discouraged.

The outer door to the office opened and Erin Hartigan, one of the other five secretaries who worked in Narcotics, came in. McCoy immediately stopped lounging against Colleen's desk. He stepped in front of Erin and proffered the bouquet.

"Erin, your outstanding typing skills, not to mention the fact that you caught three separate spelling errors that got past three paralegals and two junior ADAs _as well_ as me, were absolutely crucial to Judge Davison granting our warrant, which led directly to the arrest of Nate Foley, who two hours ago agreed to testify against his colleagues. Thanks to you, Erin, New York's finest are currently rolling up one of the city's most intractable criminal enterprises. On behalf of a grateful populace, thank you."

By the time he'd finished, Erin was blushing bright red. Shyly, she took the bouquet, to a round of applause from the other secretaries and two paralegals who had stuck their heads in from their bull-pen next door.

Colleen clapped along with the rest. Jack McCoy was given to such extravagant gestures, which no doubt contributed to a good part of the gossip that followed him around the building. And while Colleen didn't approve of the way he didn't seem to be able to carry on a conversation with one of the female staff without turning his charm dial up to full, she did approve of one of the DA's hot-shot young lawyers taking a few moments to acknowledge that there were dozens of people, low-profile and low-paid, who contributed to every one of those banner headlines of prosecutorial success.

Always white roses, or a box of chocolates tied with a white ribbon, or a ticket to a Broadway show in a crisp white envelope. More cynical ADAs sneered at McCoy and his _white knight complex_. McCoy had laughed at them, and made the label his own.

As McCoy joked with Erin and the other staff, Colleen turned back to her typewriter. _Bonhomie_ was all very well, but it didn't get subpoenas issued.

When Dan finished meeting with his witness and opened his door, he would see her hard at work.


	2. Whiteout

"Coming?" Dan said impatiently.

"I'm not done," Colleen said.

"Well, finish in the morning," he said. "Let's go home – I'm starved."

"This can't wait," Colleen said apologetically, peering at the page and trying to get the white-out applied just right. "It has to be ready for the judge first thing tomorrow."

"Get one of the other girls to handle it," Dan ordered, although he couldn't have failed to see that the office was deserted apart from Colleen.

She bit her lip, eyes on the keys of her typewriter, trying to think of a way to point out what he already knew. "I really think I ought to, Dan," she said at last. "It's a big case."

So suddenly it made her jump, he was beside her, leaning over her to read over her shoulder. "Jackson? That's one of Jack McCoy's cases, isn't it? You hoping he'll bring _you_ roses?"

"Of course not," Colleen said. "I just want to do my job right, Dan. Like you're always telling me."

"Jesus, Colleen, I'm about to keel over from hunger here! I never meant that typing up some ADA's chicken-scratch handwriting was more important than getting dinner on the table."

Colleen breathed in and out, carefully. "Why don't I order you in something?" she suggested meekly.

"Oh, no, I wouldn't want to get in the way of your _typing_ ," Dan said. "I can use a goddamn phone."

He shut the door to his office with a slam.

A moment later, Colleen heard it open again.

She kept typing, feeling his eyes on her the whole time.


	3. White Chocolate

Colleen had to take two days off work. When she came back, there was a box of chocolates on her chair, tied with a white ribbon. The note was in familiar handwriting. _Mrs. James – sorry to hear you_ _'_ _ve been sick. I know you stayed up all night getting the Jackson papers ready. I hope that wasn't the cause! Thanks for going above-and-beyond – Mr. McCoy._

Colleen didn't look up to see if Dan was watching her read the note. She crumpled it up and tossed it in the bin, then broke the seal on the chocolates. "Erin, would you like one? Tanya? Amelia?"

By the time she'd offered the chocolates around to all the secretaries and paralegals, only one was left.

She bit into it without checking the chart to see what kind it was. _Caramel_. Colleen hated caramel.

She ate it anyway, and tried not to find it symbolic.


	4. Whitewash

"Hold-the-doors-hold-the-doors – "

Instinctively, Colleen pressed the 'Doors OPEN' button and Jack McCoy dived into the elevator.

"Thanks," he said.

"Going to the foyer?" Colleen asked as the doors closed again.

"Yeah," McCoy said. "Glad to see you're feeling better, Mrs. James."

"Thank you, Mr. McCoy," Colleen said primly.

The elevator ground slowly downward.

"Mr. McCoy," Colleen said, after a moment's internal debate. "Mr. McCoy, thank you for the chocolates – but I would prefer it if you didn't do it again."

"You don't like chocolates?" McCoy asked. Colleen shot a glance at him and was surprised to find he looked genuinely interested, as if the fact that a legal secretary didn't like chocolates was an important thing to know – as if a legal secretary was an important enough person in her own right that her likes and dislikes counted for something.

"No – I mean – yes. I do. But – I would prefer it if you didn't give me chocolates. Or flowers. Or anything. Thank you."

"Mrs. James," McCoy said, "I know I have a reputation in this building, but I can assure you I have no improper designs upon your person."

Colleen laughed aloud at the thought that Jack McCoy would entertain any designs upon her at all. "I never thought you did," she assured him. McCoy had a definite _type_ — slim, polished, and above all smart. The last woman he'd look at would be a short and dumpy typist who, as Dan so often reminded her, was lucky to have passed the secretarial school examination, forget about the bar.

"Then why?"

"Mr. James doesn't like it," Colleen said.

There was a slight pause. "I see," McCoy said quietly. Colleen turned to look at him and found him regarding her steadily. "Is it just _my_ chocolates that Mr. James disapproves of?"

"Oh, no," Colleen hastened to assure him. "It's not personal at all."

"I see," McCoy said again, just as quietly.


	5. White Lies

"I was running late, and the steps were icy, and I just – " Colleen made a gesture meant to convey her feet sliding out from under her.

"You were lucky you didn't break your neck!" Tanya said.

"I know," Colleen agreed. "I've told the super and told him about salting the steps, but he's just too lazy to get to it early enough in the day."

"Tanya, I need my submission back," Jack McCoy said from the doorway. "I realized – Jesus, Mrs. James, what happened?"

"Slipped on the steps at home," Colleen said, automatically raising her hand to cover the bruise on her cheek. "I was in such a hurry, and I'm clumsy at the best of times, and – "

"And you fell down the stairs," McCoy said. "You fell down those steps last month, too, didn't you?"

"Well, I'm a klutz," Colleen said with a smile.

"You should be more careful," McCoy said seriously. "Really, Mrs. James. You could get hurt."

"Oh, I usually bounce," Colleen said.

"Even so," McCoy said.

"Colleen!" Dan shouted from his office. "Have you got those copies yet?"

"Excuse me," Colleen said to McCoy. She grabbed the pages Dan wanted her from her desk and hurried across the hall.


	6. White Feather

"For you, Amelia," Jack McCoy said, "My eternal gratitude for getting the Jackson discovery ready in time, and also these flowers. And for you, Mrs. James, a deposition that needs three copies."

Knowing that Dan was in court all day made Colleen daring. "That's the nicest thing you've ever given me, Mr. McCoy," she said.

"Sad, but true," he said blithely. "Ladies, I'll leave you to it."

Colleen settled herself into her chair, rolled a fresh sheet of paper into her typewriter, and opened the file McCoy had given her.

Tucked under the clip on the front page was a mimeographed leaflet. 'Do you feel unsafe at home?' it asked her. 'There are places you can get help.' And under the words, a list of names and telephone numbers – names like _Manhattan Battered Women_ _'_ _s Shelter_ and _New York Women_ _'_ _s Safety Project._

Even knowing Dan was in court all day, Colleen broke out in a cold sweat at the thought of him catching her looking at the leaflet. She yanked it out of the file and began to tear it up, in half and then in half again, over and over until nothing was left but a handful of confetti that she dropped into her wastepaper bin.

She looked quickly at the other secretaries to see if they'd noticed what she was doing, but all had their heads down, typewriter keys clicking away. Then she darted a glance at the door to reassure herself that yes, Dan was out all day.

Jack McCoy stood in the doorway, leaning against the door-frame, all casual and careless as if he didn't know and didn't care how good he looked doing it. Then Colleen met his gaze and thought that perhaps right then he _didn_ _'_ _t_ know and _didn_ _'_ _t_ care how he looked.

She shook her head, trying to convey _thanks_ , and _no thanks_ , and a warning, all at once.

McCoy nodded, once, and turned away.


	7. White Haired Boy

"Mrs James."

Colleen looked up from her typewriter. "Yes?"

Bill Williams — _Billy Billy_ except to his face — was studying the folder in his hands. "You've been handling the McLaren case, haven't you?"

 _Handling it?_ "I've been doing the typing, yes."

"You're upstairs, then. Eighth floor, Jack McCoy. He's got the case now."

"Why?" Colleen asked, meaning _why me?_

Billy Billy didn't catch her meaning. "The One-Seven turned up a body with a bullet in it that matches McLaren's gun. It's a case for Adam Schiff's white-haired boy now."

Colleen didn't dare ask anything else.

She didn't dare catch Dan's gaze, either, as she gathered up her files on the case and scurried for the elevator.

McCoy was writing when she stopped in the doorway of his office, dark head bowed over the legal pad, the ring on his finger catching the light as he drove his pen across the paper.

Colleen tapped gently on the door. "Mr McCoy?"

He held up one finger without pausing, and she shut her mouth and stood quiet until he'd filled that page and half the next and looked up. Then he smiled, so warmly Colleen couldn't help smiling back despite her better judgment. "Colleen. You've been on the McLaren case, haven't you?"

"I wouldn't put it that way," she said. "I did some typing. For Dan."

"You and I both know that _legal secretary_ and _legal typist_ aren't even in the same zip code," McCoy said. He pointed to the chair across from his desk. "Sit, Mrs James. Tell me what I need to know about Gareth McLaren. From the beginning, in order, if you can."

She certainly could, and she did.


	8. White Hot

"I had no choice, Dan!" On the street out the front of One Hogan Place, he wouldn't do more than glare at her. Even so, Colleen flinched away from him. "And I don't have any choice now. Mr McCoy got the case and he asked for me. What was I supposed to say? How would it look _for you_ if I refused?"

"That son-of-a-bitch McCoy," Dan fumed. "I could have made that case. If they'd let me."

"I know," Colleen said loyally. "I know, Dan. It isn't fair."

There had been a time when she would have believed him. There had been a time when Colleen had thought Daniel James was the most brilliant man she had ever met, and that she was incredibly lucky that he'd even been interested in talking to her. There had been a time when she had believed every word of Dan's complaints about biased judges, prejudiced supervisors, unfair outcomes and stupid juries.

She knew better, now. She'd seen Jack McCoy staring at the same page of a deposition for nearly an hour, so deep in thought he didn't even hear her when she asked him what he wanted for lunch. And she'd seen him look up, and grin, and then leap to his feet and take her hands and swing her around the room in triumph at having discovered the first, crucial crack in the defendant's alibi.

She'd seen him obsess over the details of the case until ADA Bell was rolling her eyes and Colleen wanted to scream. And then she'd typed up copies of depositions and seen McCoy using those details to wrong-foot defense witnesses as their stories fell apart right under the keys of her Remington typewriter.

Jack McCoy and Sally Bell were on the eighth floor, and Dan was in Narcotics, because Jack McCoy and Sally Bell were better lawyers than Dan could ever hope to be.

They'd make the case. Dan never could have.

Colleen kept her eyes fixed on the sidewalk and hoped that would keep Dan from reading her treacherous thoughts on her face.


	9. White Space

"Hand me that law report — the other one — the _other_ other one — that's it."

Colleen took the volume down and put it in McCoy's reaching hand. "Can I look something up for you, Mr McCoy?"

"If I knew what I was looking for, Mrs James, that would be the case. Unfortunately, I don't." He leafed through the volume. "I'm sure I made a similar argument on admissibility in a case I handled two years ago, and I won. Which case was it, though …" He raked his fingers through his hair and then scrubbed his hand over his face. "I'm getting old, Mrs James, or jaded, or both, if I can't remember a motion I myself wrote and argued."

"Two years ago?" Colleen asked. McCoy nodded. "Do you remember the judge?"

"That I _do_ remember. It was Louis Fenderman. His fly was down and every time he stood up from his desk I got a glimpse of the judicial boxers."

Closing her eyes, Colleen concentrated. _Two years ago, Fenderman. McCoy._ The words rose up in front of her as clear as they had been as her fingers depressed the keys of her Remington and the type-hammers had stamped them black against the white page. "The People's submission on defense motion in limine in the matter of the State of New York against Brian Pope, Supreme Court Criminal Term, Part forty-one, Judge Louis Fenderman presiding."

"That's amazing, Mrs James," McCoy said.

She opened her eyes. McCoy was running his finger down the table of contents. "Don't you want to know what you argued?"

His finger went still, and he looked up. "You remember?"

Colleen nodded. "As per State of Arizona against Michael Towson, upheld by the Supreme Court in Towson versus Arizona —"

When she'd finished, McCoy grinned at her. "You have a photographic memory," he said matter-of-factly.

Colleen shook her head. "Oh, no, I have a terrible memory." If she had a good memory, she'd remember the things that upset Dan and not do them. "I'm terribly forgetful."

"Mrs James, you just recited a motion you typed for me two years ago. I bet it was word perfect, too."

"That's just …" She shrugged. "I remember what I type."

"All of it?" McCoy asked.

"A lot of it," Colleen hedged.

McCoy leaned sideways and yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk. "You," he said as he produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses, "are what I believe people call 'an untapped resource'. Your discovery deserves a drink."

"Oh, no, Mr McCoy," Colleen said quickly. "I don't drink."

His eyebrow went up, and then he frowned. "Let me guess. Mr James doesn't like it?"

"He …" Colleen paused. "He prefers if I …"

McCoy leaned back in his chair. "Your husband's not here, Mrs James."

"He'll smell it. On my breath, when I get home."

"And he'll be unhappy." McCoy uncapped the bottle slowly, and splashed a half-inch in the bottom of one of the glasses.

"Yes."

"And you'll do anything to keep your husband from being unhappy with you, won't you?"

Colleen made herself smile. "Wouldn't any wife?" she said brightly.

McCoy shook his head. "Not every wife has your _reasons_ , Mrs James." He tossed back the scotch. "And you need to know that no wife should."

"I don't know what you think you mean," Colleen said quickly. She got to her feet. "If that's all, Mr McCoy, it's getting late and I —"

"Don't want to keep Mr James waiting," McCoy said.

"No." Colleen went to the coat-rack and grabbed her handbag.

McCoy smiled, with absolutely no humor. "It doesn't do to keep Mr James waiting."

"I don't want to discuss my marriage with you, Mr McCoy," Colleen said. "It's not appropriate."

 _Or safe._

She picked up her coat and hurried out the door.


	10. The White Line

Jack McCoy opened his desk drawer and fished out a bottle and one glass. "The case will be done soon, Mrs James," he said.

"I know," Colleen said. Tears threatened, and she fought them down. As hard as it had been at home while she was working on the eighth floor, the past five weeks had been the first time since she had started working at One Hogan Place when she had been able to step into the elevator and know, absolutely know, that for the next eight hours she wouldn't see or hear Dan.

And he wouldn't see or hear her. Wouldn't find something, somehow, that she'd said or done that made him suspect her of …

 _Of what_ , he never quite said. Just that she needed to be smarter, needed to be more careful, needed to prove to him that he could trust her.

One more week, perhaps two if she was lucky, and the case would be done.

McCoy put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his hands. "Mrs James," he said. "Is there somewhere you can go? A friend? Family?"

She knew she should say _Why would I need to go anywhere?_ Should say _Everything_ _'_ _s fine at home._ It was none of Jack McCoy's business, anyway. It was her personal, private life. What went on between a husband and wife in their own home was nobody's business but their own. That was what the right to privacy meant. And if she had been about to talk about what her marriage was like, it would be to a friend, to her sister — not to McCoy, who was nobody but one of the ADAs whose handwriting she deciphered.

Nobody but the man who thought it was worth knowing whether or not she liked chocolates, who had called her _an untapped resource_ and who had slipped her a mimeographed leaflet she would never dare to use.

Colleen opened her mouth, and then closed it. She shook her head.

"No one?"

Colleen picked at a ragged cuticle. "I worry … what might happen to them."

"You mean, what he might do to them," McCoy said.

She looked at him mutely.

"Hold him responsible for what he does, Mrs James," McCoy said. "Even if only in your own head."

"If I leave, he'll kill me," she whispered.

His face was kind, but his voice was implacable. "He might kill you if you stay."

Hearing it out loud she began to cry. McCoy didn't comfort her, or try to take it back. He sat on the other side of his desk, chin propped in his hand, ring glinting steady in the lamplight, and when she managed to stop crying, he said evenly, "If you want to go to the police, I'll help you."

"The police!" That was over the line. That was too much. She shook her head.

McCoy poured a half-inch of scotch into the glass. "Then I want you to promise me something."

"What?" Colleen asked.

"Promise me that you will type my direct line, and my home phone number, on that machine of yours."

Colleen frowned. "Why?"

McCoy lifted the glass, and gave her a steady look over the rim. "So I'll know that if you ever have reason to call me, you'll remember the number."


	11. White Slip

There's only so much time you can take off before someone in Personnel raises an eyebrow.

Colleen looked down at the blue notice clipped to her payslip and realized she'd passed that point.

One more absence without a medical certificate and she'd be out the door.

Dan might prefer that.

For a while.

"Mrs James, do you have —" McCoy's voice stopped. He reached past her shoulder and plucked the blue notice from her fingers. "Never mind. I probably misfiled it."

He almost certainly had, Colleen knew. Tidiness was not one of Jack McCoy's strong suits.

Dealing with Personnel, on the other hand … she waited to hear about the blue notice, waited even more tensely after the next time she had to take a day off.

Her payslip came just as it usually did that week, clean and white and with no deductions.

It was another two weeks before she happened to be in the elevator at the same time as Mr McCoy. "What did you _do_?" she hissed at him.

He gave her a sunny smile. "About what?" he asked, and was off the elevator and striding down the corridor yelling for Ms Bell before Colleen could answer.


	12. White Night

Colleen was used to lying awake while Dan slept. Usually because the throbs and pangs of the bruises wouldn't let her rest. Sometimes because she couldn't let go of the fear of him enough to loosen the knot in her chest, even though she knew he hadn't meant it, even though she knew it was her own fault in the first place.

She was used to lying awake while he slept.

She wasn't used to getting up, carefully and quietly. She wasn't used to carrying her shoes out into the hall, shrugging on her coat, slipping on her shoes as she opened the door.

She wasn't used to walking out the door and down the street and into the night.

She walked down the block and then down the next one and the one after. She could tell it was cold, cold enough for her breath to steam in front of her face, cold enough to make her shiver, but she didn't feel cold. Her shoes weren't really made for walking and raised blisters on her feet, but she didn't feel pain.

She walked.

Eventually she found herself staring at a phone booth. It was daylight, Colleen realized, even if only just. She had walked all night.

She had no idea where she was.

She had nowhere to go.

She had a dime in her pocket.

She had a dime in her pocket and two phone numbers stamped in black ink on a white page clear in her mind.

It was daylight, so she tried the office number first.

It was daylight, so _of course_ Jack McCoy was already at his desk. "Hello?"

Colleen tried to speak, failed.

"Hello?" McCoy asked impatiently. "Who is this?"

Colleen forced the words out, unable to recognize her own voice. "Mr McCoy."

"Mrs James?" McCoy said instantly.

"Thank you for making me type the numbers," she whispered.

"Are you — where are you?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "A pay-phone. I don't know where."

"Read me the number." When she did, he said, "Just hold on, Mrs James. Don't hang up. I'm going to get someone on the other line who will know where that is, okay? Don't hang up."

The beeps, then. Her time was up, and she was out of change. Out of nowhere, a sob tore through her.

"I will call you back," McCoy said firmly. "Mrs James. Just stay there, and I will call you back."

And the phone did ring, almost immediately, and it was Jack McCoy's voice on the other end of it. "Alright," he said easily. "It's alright, Mrs James. I know where you are, and there's a patrol on its way to you. It's going to be alright."


	13. Blue And White

A patrol car came, blue and red lights washing over the storefronts down the street, coming closer. McCoy talked to her, calm and quiet, while two uniformed officers stood patiently beside their car until Colleen could make herself hang up the phone and step out of the booth.

When the police officers took Colleen to the 15th Precinct Danielle Melnick from the _New York Women_ _'_ _s Safety Project_ was there, little and fierce and stunningly pretty. She held Colleen's hand in both of hers while Colleen faltered through a statement. It all sounded so trivial when she said it out loud — the sort of things that happened in every marriage, every marriage where the husband had a hot temper and his wife was a fool who didn't know how to keep him happy.

"Has he ever injured you?" the detective asked.

Colleen shook her head. "Not … not really. He was very sorry about it, afterward. And it was my fault."

"May I?" Danielle asked, and when the detective nodded, "Colleen, how many times was he very sorry, afterward?"

"I'm … I'm not sure."

Danielle's voice was warm and even. "More than once? More than twice?"

Colleen nodded.

"More than three times, this year?"

Colleen closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

"And what sort of things was he very sorry for?"

"He —" She couldn't say it. She lifted the hand that Danielle wasn't holding and touched her cheek. "For the bruise."

"Where he hit you," Danielle said steadily, not a question. "Hard enough to leave a bruise."

Colleen nodded.

"And why did you leave, last night?"

"He, he, he —" She squeezed her eyes shut and held hard to Danielle's hands. "He said it was time for me to go off the Pill."

And that would be it, she knew. They both knew now that she hadn't left because she was scared of Dan. She hadn't left because he'd hurt her. She'd left her husband because he wanted to start a family and because she was such a useless excuse for a wife that the thought of bringing a child into the world, with him, to raise, _with him_ , had filled her with terror instead of joy.

She kept her eyes closed so as not to see the realization and the disgust on the detective's face.

"Do you have enough?" Danielle asked.

"I don't know how well it'll stand up in court, but yeah," the detective said, and Colleen opened her eyes to see him looking at her with kindness, and perhaps with pity, and nothing else.

Danielle smiled at her, and squeezed her hand. "It's not for court," she said. "Come on, Colleen. Let's get you somewhere safe where you can get some sleep."

 _Somewhere safe_ turned out to be an anonymous brownstone in an unremarkable street with a dozen women and children inside. Women who were running from men who were worse than Dan, some of them, women who closed around Colleen as she started to cry and took it in turns to hold her hand and pat her shoulder and tell her that she was going to be alright.

Danielle Melnick came back in the evening, with a note in a white envelope. Colleen opened it and read Jack McCoy's familiar handwriting. _Adam Schiff has personally signed off on your emergency leave_ , it said. _So don_ _'_ _t worry. I need a couple of days to sort things out at the office. Call me at the end of the week._

 _At the office_. Colleen hadn't even thought about it except to know that she could never go back. Work with Dan all day, every day? She couldn't even let him _see_ her, ever again.

Some of it must have showed on her face, because Danielle put a hand on her arm. "It'll be all right, Colleen. Jack is working some angles."

And when the end of the week came and Colleen called McCoy, she found that Danielle had been right.

"Mrs James, you can come in to work any time you feel up to it," McCoy said. "Your husband has taken a job at the Maricopa Country Attorney's Office. In Phoenix. He left this morning. I put him on the plane myself."

All Colleen could think to say was, "Why Phoenix?"

"They had an open position, and the DA owed Adam Schiff a favor."

"But — why? Dan — why did he —?"

"Because he didn't have a lot of options, Mrs James," McCoy said. "Come up to eighth when you get back to work. We can talk then."


	14. White Flag

When Colleen went into the office the next Monday, Dan's office was empty. His nameplate had been removed. It was like he'd never existed.

She took the elevator up to McCoy's floor. When she tapped on his door, he looked up from the page he was filling with notes and grinned. "Come in, Mrs James."

Colleen took the chair she'd become used to sitting in during the weeks they'd worked together, at the small table beside his desk. "Dan really is gone."

"Gone a very long way away," McCoy said smugly.

"What did you _do_?"

McCoy leaned sideways and took a file from the bookcase. He took out a piece of paper. "I showed him a copy of your police complaint." Another page followed the first. "And the indictment for the Grand Jury, all filled in and ready to go. I reminded him that Sally Bell has, to date, a perfect record when it comes to getting true bills out of our fellow citizens. She has a pretty good record when it comes to trial, too. I suggested he might like to look outside the jurisdiction for employment." McCoy grinned again. "And then Adam came in and thanked him for all his hard work and handed him a reference and a job offer in Phoenix. Dan raised the white flag."

Colleen studied the pages. _The People charge that Daniel James did, on multiple occasions, strike Colleen James and cause injury._ That was not what she'd told the police, she was almost sure, but it was sort of what had happened, translated into legalese. _Those occasions include, but are not limited to_ _…_ a list of dates going back to the beginning of the year. "I don't remember those dates. I didn't tell the police any dates."

"Well, I've been keeping a list, Mrs James, of the times you fell down the stairs or walked into a door." He reached into his desk drawer. Colleen expected him to produce a bottle but instead he took out a notebook and flipped it open. "Contemporaneous notes, all dated, made by a concerned colleague. Evidentiarily impeccable. I showed them to Ben Stone down the hall every time, too, and he'd testify to that, if the defense tried to argue I'd made them up afterward and lied about it." McCoy closed the notebook. "I couldn't testify as to _how_ you received those bruises I observed, of course. But Sally would have been sure to ask me, as a prosecutor with considerable experience, what my expert opinion was, and I would have been sure to answer before the judge could uphold any defense objection. Being a witness would have meant I couldn't prosecute him personally, but Sally's pretty good, and Dan knew I would have been holding her coat."

 _Since the beginning of the year_. McCoy had been planning, had been preparing to prosecute Dan since the beginning of the year. "You didn't ask me. If I wanted to press charges. If I wanted to testify. You would have made me — tell everyone. _Everyone._ "

"I would never have made you take the stand," McCoy said quickly. "Mrs James. I would never have put you through a trial."

"Then why did you take all those notes?" she cried. "Why did you write it all down if you weren't planning all along to prosecute him?"

McCoy steepled his hands and regarded her steadily over the top of them. "So you would have the _option_. These cases are hard to try, Mrs James. Neighbors don't want to get involved. Medical records, if there are any, don't tell the whole story. That's what these sons-of-bitches rely on, that and the fact that their victims blame themselves. If you had wanted to have him charged, I wanted to give you the best possible chance — but I would never have forced it on you."

Colleen shook her head. "And what if he hadn't taken the job? What if he'd decided to fight the charges? You would have had to put me up before the Grand Jury, and at the trial, and — "

"If he hadn't taken the job," McCoy said steadily, "I would have had to find a different way to skin this particular cat. But I knew he'd take the deal. Cowards always do."

"And what if he — if he comes back?"

"I might have explained to him that any contact with you, by phone, mail or in person, would be intimidation and therefore a continuation of his previous offenses. Which would immediately reset the clock on the statute of limitations. I might have suggested that if you were to so much as glimpse him on the street at any time for the rest of your life, I would make it my personal mission to put him in jail. I might have implied that a former employee of the DA's Office wouldn't find it comfortable, being incarcerated with men he'd helped put away."

"Is any of that true?"

McCoy shrugged. "We'd be in uncharted waters on statue of limitations. But I think I could make a fairly convincing argument to the right judge." He paused. "As for putting him in jail if he so much as _thinks_ about coming near you again, that is _absolutely_ true. And if he's stupid enough to try it, security knows he's not to be allowed into the building and the mail-room knows that nothing he sends to you is to be delivered. Your phone extension has been changed and the switchboard will not put through any calls he makes. When you find a new apartment, he won't know where it is. He's _gone_ , Mrs James. You will never see him or hear from him again."

She nodded. "I guess … thank you. I can't quite believe it, but thank you."

"I know it doesn't feel as if it's true," McCoy said gently, "but it is. And you'll know it is, in time. You're safe, and eventually, Mrs James, you'll feel that way."

 _Mrs James_. _Mrs James_ was Dan's wife. _Mrs James_ was afraid to go home and afraid to leave. _Mrs James_ was not who Colleen was going to be, anymore, thanks to Jack McCoy. "It's … it's _Ms_ ," she said. "Ms Petraky." It sounded right, her maiden name. It sounded like a woman who would get her own apartment, and pay her own bills, and possibly even learn to drive a car.

Slight lift of an eyebrow, and then McCoy stretched across the desk, holding out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Ms Petraky."

Colleen took McCoy's hand and shook it. "Pleased to be met."


	15. White Gold

Jack McCoy hitched a hip on the edge of her desk.

Colleen shot a reflexive glance at the door that used to hold the nameplate _Daniel James_. She couldn't seem to stop doing it. She hated that she couldn't seem to stop doing it and she hated that when she looked back at McCoy she could tell he'd caught her doing it.

Smart-ass, at times pain in the ass, and well on his way to becoming One Hogan Place's resident tomcat, Jack McCoy was also a good and decent man in ways that mattered, and he didn't say a word. "Ms Petraky," he said gravely, "I need your help."

"Of course." She could refuse him nothing. Then she caught the unexpected seriousness in his expression and thought that perhaps this particular request might involve something beyond staying late in the office to finish typing.

Whatever it was, she'd do it. "Of course," she said again.

"It's Sally," McCoy said. "Sally Bell." He took a velvet box from his jacket pocket and snapped it open.

The diamonds weren't the biggest Colleen had ever seen in her life but she knew what ADAs were paid, and she could admire the individuality shown in the choice of platinum rather than yellow gold. "It's beautiful."

"You think she'll like it?"

"I don't really know Ms Bell's taste, Mr McCoy, but it's a beautiful ring."

"I want to ask her properly. Ellen — well, let's just say it wasn't the most romantic marriage proposal in the world. And look how that ended up."

"I don't know if getting the proposal right is really the important thing," Colleen said cautiously, although she was the last person in the world to be giving marriage advice.

McCoy grinned down at her. "I'd like to at least not get it _wrong._ "

"What are you planning to do?"

"That's the problem," he said ruefully. "I have no idea. I mean, what do women want these days? Roses? A violin? Maybe a carriage ride around Central Park?" He looked at her hopefully. "So can you help me, Ms Petraky? Advise me?"

"I'd skip the carriage ride," Colleen said. "In fact, I'd stay right away from horses altogether, if you're planning on going down on one knee." She tapped her pen against her teeth. "Leave it with me, Mr McCoy. When are you planning to do it?"

"Tomorrow night. It's our anniversary. One year since we tried our first case together."

Colleen raised her eyebrows. "You do like leaving things to the last minute, Mr McCoy. But I'll figure something out. Leave it with me. Now, shoo. I need to finish typing these submissions before I can do anything at all about your romantic problems."

McCoy grinned, and got up. "I knew I could count on you, Ms Petraky."

He could. Colleen had less than twenty-four hours but she had a telephone and a directory and an iron-clad determination not to let Jack McCoy down.

She also had a friend on the courthouse staff, which made everything a great deal easier.

When she passed McCoy in the foyer the next day he grinned at her and gave her the thumbs up. "The rose petals were a nice touch," he said. "I think that's what sold her on the idea. Where did you get them?"

"This is New York City, Mr McCoy," Colleen said. "You can find _anything_ here." You could find rose petals, and string quartets at the last minute, and a catering company that could set and serve a romantic dinner anywhere, even in the courtroom where two colleagues had tried their first case a year ago yesterday.

And you could find good and kind and decent people in New York City, too, in places you'd never have thought to look for them, such as in the person of a far-too-charming ADA who had more than earned his reputation for a constitutional inability to keep his pants zipped around attractive co-workers.

He would break Sally Bell's heart, Colleen knew. She'd seen how Sally looked at him, and she'd seen how he looked at Sally, and she gave it a year, two at the most, before one or the other of them worked out that a marriage based on professional admiration and convenience wasn't going to go the distance.

But Jack McCoy didn't know that yet. He might not truly be in love with Sally, but he thought he was, and today he was smiling at Colleen like a man who had just won the lottery. "You've just won me the hand of the most wonderful woman in New York," he said. "Do you think you could possibly bring yourself to call me Jack?"

Colleen thought about it. "No," she said at last, as the elevator arrived. "No, I don't think I can. But — I don't think I mind if you call me Colleen."


	16. White Ribbon

When the call came down for her to go up to the tenth floor and see Mr Schiff, Colleen was sure she was about to be fired. Those blue notices on her file … it had been months and months since she'd had one, but there were probably processes Human Resources had to go through and they'd only just got around to her now.

She sighed, taking one last look around the Narcotics typing pool. She would miss them, Erin, Louisa, Tanya, Amelia. She would miss the work, which was a lot more interesting than typing up letters in some business office. She would miss Jack McCoy's ridiculous nonsense.

She would have to get another job.

Six months ago, the thought would have filled Colleen with panic. Another job, a new job, new people … endless interviews with recruiters who'd look at her and know instantly that she was clumsy, that she was stupid, that she didn't have the faintest idea what she was doing.

Now she sighed again, and pulled the cover over her typewriter. She would have to get another job, and that would be a nuisance.

"Ah, Ms Petraky, there you are," Adam Schiff said when she tapped on his door. "Come in. Sit down."

She perched on the edge of the chair by his desk. "Mr Schiff, I want to say how grateful I am for the opportunities the District Attorney's Office has given me, and despite —"

He frowned at her, which did nothing for the butterflies in her stomach. "Opportunities, that's one way to put it, unpaid overtime would be another. You look nervous."

Mr Schiff was as gruff and abrupt one-to-one as he was at the annual office Christmas Party. Colleen swallowed hard. "I know I've had some unauthorized leave and I promise —"

He waved that away. "I know what that's about. Jack McCoy told me. You're worried I called you up here to fire you? Ms Petraky, the District Attorney doesn't personally fire anyone below the eighth floor."

"Oh," Colleen said.

Mr Schiff frowned and looked at her from under his eyebrows. "I want you to work for me."

"I … already work for you."

"I want you to work for me _up here_." He waved a hand towards the door. "Out there. My secretary is getting married. Which wouldn't be a problem except for the reason she's getting married involves a metaphorical shotgun." He paused. "Maybe an actual shotgun, for all I know. Anyway, I need someone to sit at that desk out there."

"And do your typing?"

"Sometimes. There's not much of it. I need someone to manage my diary, screen my visitors, write my letters —"

"Write your _letters_?"

"Do you know how many people write to me, Ms Petraky? If I answered them all myself I'd never get anything else done. Jack McCoy says you're wasted in the typing pool. He says that if you can organize a string quartet, a shower of rose petals and a four-course dinner for two catered and served in a courtroom in a day, then you should have no problem organizing _me_. He says you correct his grammar when it needs it and can remember every word you ever typed."

"Not _every_ word," Colleen hedged. "Just most of them."

"That'll do," Mr Schiff said. "How about it? Will you help an old man out? There's a pay rise."

"Oh, I don't need a pay rise —"

"I'll take that as a yes. And the pay is non-negotiable. You'll earn it. And whether you need it or not, you deserve it. When can you start?"

"I have some outstanding depositions to finish typing —"

"You can do that out front."

"Then … now?"

"Alright." He heaved himself forward in his chair and leaned over to shake her hand. "Welcome to the tenth floor. Try not to get knocked up."

"No, sir, Mr Schiff," Colleen said, and, stunned, made her escape.

Her new desk was just by Mr Schiff's door. It was a lot newer and nicer than her old desk, no doubt because every visitor to the District Attorney would see it.

And there was a bunch of flowers on it that Colleen was almost certain hadn't been there when she'd walked into Mr Schiff's office.

White roses. Tied with a white ribbon.

She knew she should go right downstairs and tell the others, collect her work and come back up here to make a start. Instead she sat down at her new desk and ran her fingers softly over the satin-smooth wood. Personal secretary to the District Attorney himself! Even, from the sound of what he'd told her she'd be doing, an assistant! Not an Assistant District Attorney, but an assistant nonetheless.

"You're new," a voice said.

Colleen looked up to see Ben Stone peering at her over the top of his glasses. She knew him by sight, of course, and of course he had no idea who she was. He was a brilliant prosecutor, and she was just one of the dozens of women who deciphered his handwriting.

 _Had_ been just one of the dozens of women who deciphered his handwriting. "I'm Ms Petraky, Mr Stone. Mr Schiff's new secretary."

"I hope you last longer than the previous two," he said, and eyed the flowers. "Although if you're already receiving roses from …" He picked up the bouquet and looked for a card. "A mystery admirer, I have to say that the signs are not good."

"They're not from an admirer, Mr Stone." Colleen held out her hand and he surrendered the flowers.

Mr Stone frowned at her, and Colleen had a moment's sympathy for anyone unfortunate enough to be a witness in a case he prosecuted. "And how do you know that? They're anonymous."

Colleen was not a witness. She was the District Attorney's new personal assistant. A good portion of her job was going to involve wrangling ADAs who were all too used to getting their own way.

 _Might as well start now_ , she thought, and smiled at Mr Stone. "Oh, I know exactly who sent them. They're from a friend, Mr Stone, a very good friend indeed."

A good friend, and a good man.

Good enough, perhaps, to qualify as her own personal white knight.


End file.
